


Your Endgame Must Be Suicide

by damalur



Series: Suicide Chess [1]
Category: Big Bang Theory
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2010-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't know why they have a business major taking a physics class, or why her professor's hands are scarred, or why he hates himself.  AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU, based on [this](http://damalur.livejournal.com/187483.html) ficlet written for the kink meme. I am capable of lurking in a fandom for only so long before I crank up the Rilo Kiley and write strange and twisted things. I'm not sure if this works or not, though, so call it an experiment?

\- 1 -

She was twenty-one and gorgeous when she transferred to his class. It was the third day of her junior year, and she needed a hard science credit to graduate. He made it perfectly clear that he didn't appreciate students transferring into his class after the term started and that he was wasted on an undergraduate introductory course and that she wasn't worth the dirt beneath his feet. He didn't say any of that out loud, although he rarely bothered to hide his opinions, but she could read it in the slant of his mouth and the impatience of his hands when she stopped by his office to pick up a syllabus.

"I don't accept slipshod reasoning," he told her, without looking up from the chessboard centered on his desk. "Nor do I find it acceptable when students still have not prepared their schedules by the third day of classes."

She tightened her hand around her purse-strap and trapped the tip of her tongue between her teeth. This man was unbelievable, like something out of a bygone era; his office was done in dark, heavy textures, every book perfectly aligned with the edge of the shelf, every paper filed in a folder—in fact, the only thing that seemed out of place was the picture frame resting face-down on a corner of his desk. His person was equally formal, his suit razor-crisp, his mien rigid enough that she wanted to strike him to see if he'd shatter. He had an ageless face, and could have been twenty as easily as forty.

"Yeah," she said, "well, the Dean gave me permission to transfer, so it doesn't matter whether you find it acceptable or not."

His lips contorted, and he gave her a look that could have soured milk. "Miss Penelope," he said. "That will be all."

"You still haven't given me the syllabus," she pointed out.

He flicked open a file-folder and extracted a quarter-inch stack of paper, neatly stapled in the corner. "I expect you'll arrive Monday with all of this week's assignments completed to my satisfaction," he said, attention again on the chessboard, and stretched his hand to her. He held the packet with only his first three fingers; the other two were twisted oddly, and Penny could just make out a line of scar tissue snaking across his palm and disappearing beneath his shirt cuff. When he looked up he caught her staring, traced the line of her gaze to his malformed fingers, and practically flung the syllabus at her. "_Some_ of us have more important matters demanding our attention, novel though the idea may seem to the undergraduate cretins of the world," he snapped.

She crumpled the packet in one fist and did something she'd never dared before: She gave a teacher the finger. Then she fled.

 

 

 

 

\- 2 -

Why she kept the class she couldn't say; she spent most of her second weekend on campus cowering in her room, sure that he was going to report her _(to a dean? her advisor?)_ for disrespect. They couldn't give her detention, for Christ's sake, she was in college, but they could kick her out of the class, or put a note in her academic record, or—

Retaliation never came.

Two weeks later, she called him out in class.

 

 

\- 3 -

He was brilliant, Penny had to concede. Unfortunately, brilliance did not a good teacher make; he spent most of the lectures plowing through his notes in a steady monotone or covering the white board with small, precise strings of numbers and symbols. His thought process was so above most of the students in the room that he couldn't begin to approach the low level at which they needed to be taught, and his impatience with their questions only frustrated the situation.

She would have written him off entirely, spent extra time pouring over supplementary material and going to a teacher's aide with questions, if it weren't for one thing: He seemed largely unaware of the effects of his careless remarks. Most of the time he didn't even intend to be insulting, Penny realized; he was simply stating the facts as he saw them. _I am smarter than you._ _I find this concept simple, and do not understand why you do not._ _I've explained this already, and have neither the time nor the patience to revisit the material._

His behavior was curiously childlike, as if he'd missed out on Social Conventions 101 and skipped straight to Advanced String Theory _(knowledge of human interaction not a prerequisite)._ The blend of naivety, forthrightness, and total arrogance stayed most of the students from confronting or even approaching him.

Most of the students. Not Penny.

_"Sir,"_ she said, and it was the first time she'd opened her mouth in his presence since he'd handed her the syllabus. "I think Josh needs you to go over momentum again."

His eyes bulged, and he cut off his tirade with a noise like a cat being strangled. "Excuse me, Miss—"

"Penny." He hadn't even _remembered_ her?

"I fail to see how _Josh_ needs me to review an idea so simple as momentum, when I clearly explained—"

"No, you didn't."

"I beg your pardon."

"No," she repeated, "you didn't explain it clearly."

_"How—"_

"Look." Penny reached over and tugged Josh's notebook free from under his elbow. "He did the homework. We all did the homework. The only reason I understood the homework is because I spent two hours with a remedial textbook in the library. Your explanation—"

The bell rang, and the class froze, torn between the instinctual need to escape and paralyzed fascination with the brewing encounter.

"Go," the professor said, and there was a mad scramble to collect books and be the first out the door. "Except for you, Miss Penny."

She tucked her pencil back into her purse, flipped Josh's notebook shut—she'd have to track him down and return it tomorrow—and waited.

He didn't disappoint, but he did surprise. After a long moment of studying her, he circled around the mammoth desk at the front of the room and hovered next to her table. "Explain what you meant. Please," he added.

"Professor...you don't teach a lot of undergrad courses, do you?"

"No. This is a—favor, for a colleague of mine."

"You're teaching like you'd teach grad students, or like you'd talk to a bunch of other professors. Most of us know squat about momentum and vectors, and your explanation goes right over our heads. I don't even know what calculus is, much less how it relates to acceleration."

He frowned, but she could see the wheels turning. "You haven't taken calculus?"

"No. I doubt any of us have. The only requirement is advanced algebra."

"Interesting. I'd have thought that a grounding in higher mathematics would be crucial for the understanding of classical physics." One of his fingers tapped idly against the tabletop. "This is...a considerable detriment."

Penny opened her mouth, shut it, and shrugged. "And...maybe you could try being a little nicer?" 

His eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "The new data you've provided me will be noted, _Miss_ Penny, but what my degree of _niceness_ has to do with the curriculum I don't comprehend."

She sighed. "No. I guess not." He'd already dismissed her, his eyes tracking over the white board. She hefted her backpack and slid past him, headed for the door, and her hip and shoulder brushed his side.

The resulting buzz lingered for the rest of the day.

 

 

\- 4 -

She did it again, when he called Abby Suedkamp a mindless automaton after she confessed that she hadn't read the chapter because of a lacrosse match.

He didn't take her criticisms as well as the first time.

 

 

\- 5 -

And again, when he banished Josh after the poor man tripped and spilled coffee all over the lecture notes.

And still he never smiled, and still he didn't banish _her_.

 

 

\- 6 -

By week six, she had a regular chair in his office.

_What do you know,_ she thought. _Apparently the way to Doctor Doom's heart is to tell him he's wrong._

She had no idea how right she was.

 

 

\- 7 -

"And that," she said, "is why it's good to encourage your students once in a while."

"Fascinating," he said. "I always thought that academic success was motivated by very straightforward causes."

"Not a chance. I mean, look at me—my mom's a waitress, I'm a waitress, and I don't want to be a waitress anymore. I don't care about grades or the purity of the subject or whatever, I just want a decent job."

He steepled his fingers. "And what is your major?"

"Business," she said. "My fast-track out of Nebraskan diners."

"Nn. I'm from Texas," he said, and she started; he'd never offered personal information before.

It occurred to her that he was lonely.

 

 

\- 8 -

And the sparks between them built.

Little things, little brushes; he'd lean a touch too close when he bent over to examine her problem set, she'd take her time picking up the calculator dropped on her way past him. His eyes might linger on her legs, hers might flutter shut at the sound of his voice.

And the sparks between them built.

 

 

\- 9 -

Fucking teachers. It was the kind of thing she'd talked about before, with her friends, her friends who talked endlessly about sex and boys.

"Oh my God," Keisha said. "Seriously. You guys do not have any idea. He is so _freaking_ hot."

"This is your anthro teacher, right?" Amy asked. "The one who's hung like a horse?"

"Oh yeah," Keisha said. "And he's got this chest that's all like, chiseled, like Hugh Jackman chiseled—"

"Keisha, how do you even _know_ all this?" Lita jabbed her nail file in the air. "Are you screwing him, or something?"

Keisha tittered.

"Oh my God. Oh my God." Amy bolted upright and her polish tipped onto her lap. "Shit! But oh my God. You are, aren't you? You are! Are you?"

"Maaaybe," Keisha said, although her smile gave the game away. "So what if I am?"

Amy shrugged. "Isn't it, like, against school policy?"

There was a pause, as all three considered.

"Whatever. I'd do it if he was hot enough," Lita said.

Amy shrugged again. "I'd only do it for a grade."

"I am doing it," said Keisha, "and I have no regrets. Hey, Penny, how 'bout you?"

Penny jerked, startled out of her textbook. "Sorry, guys. How about me what?"

"Would you sleep with a professor?"

_"What?"_

"Would you," Keisha said, slowly, "do the nasty...with a teacher?"

"Oh," Penny said, and blinked. "Um. I don't know? ...I mean, if Brad Pitt ever decides to come teach a management course, I'm not gonna turn him down."

Her friends laughed. Amy flicked drops of nail polish at Keisha.

Penny did not think of long fingers and blue eyes.

 

 

\- 10 -

"And that's why centrifugal force is a pseudo-force?"

"Because it originates in the rotation of the frame of reference," he said, "that's correct."

"Huh." Penny tucked a leg underneath her. "Physics is weird."

"It may seem less than logical at times, at least to the unfamiliar eye," he agreed. He was toying with a chess piece, turning it over and over, and as she watched he brought it to a rest between his thumb and middle finger, his hand hovering over an empty space on the ever-present chessboard. "Penny? Would you like to play?"

"Oh," she said, and smiled awkwardly. "I don't know anything about chess. But thanks."

He hesitated, then set the piece down. "I play a variant."

"...Whatsit?"

He lifted his eyes skyward, an expression she'd learned to recognize as a supplication for patience. "A variant. An altered game in which the equipment and basic concept are the same, but which differs in execution and other specifics. It's called suicide chess."

"_Suicide_ chess?"

"Yes. The goal is not, as in normal chess, to capture your opponent's king, but rather to lose all of your pieces to your opponent as quickly as possible."

"That's...strange."

"No," he said, and cleared his throat. "Well. Let me know if you have any further questions on mechanics."

"Sure." Her notes were scattered over two chairs and a stool; she shuffled them into order, and found she was missing her annotated photocopies from the section on optics. "Professor Cooper? Could you hand me those papers—the ones under your laptop?"

"Of course," he said, and reached out to hand her the papers—

And their fingers touched.

 

 

\- _Coda_ -

Six years later, they met again at a train station. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't know why they have a business major taking a physics class, or why her professor's hands are scarred, or why he hates himself. AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comic book referenced is Invincible Iron Man vol. 1 #172. It's worth googling for a laugh; the cover really does look like Marvel Comics meets Gone with the Wind by way of Queer as Folk. Jenny Lewis &amp; The Watson Twins inspired Penny's backstory (kudos if you guess the song!). Sheldon quotes Ranier Maria Rilke's "Pietà." As always, this sits firmly in the realm of experiment.

\- 1 -

The bell rang.

The bell rang, and she sauntered to the front of the empty classroom, confident on stilettos that boosted her level with his mouth. She set two fingers on his tie; the invasion of his personal space was not a thing to be taken lightly, but she'd made up her mind and she'd worn the shoes and there was no turning back now.

He swallowed.

"Professor," she said, and struggled for words. No explanation came, so she kissed him, full on the mouth, two fingers hooked under his tie and the other hand pressed to his clavicle for balance.

He jerked back, his mouth very red against his pale skin; so she attacked again, yanked him down by his tie and kissed him and kept kissing him until something gave way and he sagged against her and his hands crept to her waist and he wrested control from her.

They pulled apart to breathe.

"Penny," he said, "this is not—"

"Shut up," she said, and kissed him again.

 

 

\- 2 -

She blew him in his office before class, and when he came one hand yanked at her hair and the other scrabbled for purchase on his desk, knocking over chess pieces like dominoes.

 

 

\- 3 -

"This," he said, "is a gross breach of protocol."

She ran her hand down his back and watched his eyes flutter shut. _Then why do you_ was on the tip of her tongue, but she sensed that even so small a weight could upset their fragile equilibrium.

 

 

\- 4 -

"Tell me about yourself."

It wasn't a request so much as a command. Penny tugged at the sheets; they were both flat on their backs in his bed, shoulders barely brushing. The position lacked intimacy, particularly after what they'd just done, but for him to ask about her life—he might as well have slid his fingers back into her and brought her off again.

"I have brothers," she said. "But I don't see them a lot. My dad left my mom when—well, I was pretty little, and he took the boys with him. It was just me and Mom and whatever loser of the week she dragged home." She paused. "Mom waitressed at this diner, and I'd have to go straight there after school." The mattress dipped, and when she turned her head she found him looking back at her.

"Continue," he said. "—Please."

"When I was fifteen I started working at the diner with Mom, and then I kept working at the diner 'til I got sick of it. I applied for—geez, every student loan I could dig up, and came here. That's about it, really."

He was silent, and she took his silence to study the ceiling. The cover on the light was plain, but it softened the shadows into something almost friendly. "I wanted to be an actress."

She could feel his eyebrow lift. "Why?"

"Why? Because it's what I wanted to do, it was—look, it was just what I wanted to do. But we never had enough money. So, business." She shrugged one shoulder. "My mom had this fur coat, right? She saved up for, God, _years_, put aside all her tips and everything, finally got enough money to buy it. It was this huge ugly thing, but she was so proud of it. Genuine rabbit fur." 

The light flickered. She tried to synchronize their breathing, but matching his even exhalations left her short of breath. "And I...all I could think was, _If she hadn't bought that coat, I could have taken acting lessons._"

He was silent; her story spilled into his silence. "I mean—it's stupid, right, but I was only a little kid. There was, I just felt so confused and angry and _guilty_, because she never did anything like that for me, and I was her _daughter_—"

He was silent.

 

 

\- 5 -

Five minutes later, still silent, he rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. She heard the shower start, and then he pushed the door shut.

She spent ten of the intervening minutes lolling in bed, but curiosity seized her; she shook out the neat folds of his dress shirt and slipped it on, buttoning the front haphazardly. His bedroom was as neat as she'd expected, but oddly sterile. There was a picture of a dark-haired woman about her own age on his dresser, and Penny wondered—

She set the frame down and turned around quickly, too quickly; her foot hit something solid under the bed and she went down, twisting to land on her side. No pain, not really, but the air was knocked from her.

She blinked.

The entire space below his bed was lined with boxes, identical white boxes with uniform lids, each about the height of a hardback book. Dust coated her hand when she touched the top. She hooked her fingers into the cutaway handle, pulled, and grunted with surprise; the box was longer than she'd thought and _heavy_. 

Inside lay a long row of—somethings, each something sealed into a plastic sleeve. She worked one of the somethings out—they were packed tight—and found, preserved and packaged with a cardboard backing, a comic book.

Comic books. Boxes and boxes of comic books. The one in her hand was dated July, with no year, but the price was only sixty cents; it had to have been from years or even decades ago. On the cover a man wearing a blue mask cradled another man, this one dark-haired and unconscious. She clamped down a giggle; it looked like gay erotica, not, as the title loudly proclaimed, THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN.

The shower shut off, and her heart leapt. She slid THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN and his paramour back into what she hoped was the right spot, fumbled the lid on, and shoved hard until the whole box slid under the bed. When the door opened and he emerged in a cloud of steam, she was again sprawled across the bed, one hand under her head while the other toyed with the shirt's buttons.

He tilted his head and said, quite calmly, "Penny. You're wearing my shirt. You can't be wearing my shirt."

She didn't know what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this.

 

 

\- 6 -

So when Kurt asked her out to dinner, she didn't struggle with her answer.

She said yes, of course.

 

 

\- 7 -

Friday afternoons always felt slow to her, with morning classes long over with and the excitement of the evening not yet begun. She slipped into his office out of boredom more than anything; he must have been in a similar predicament, because the white board that dominated one wall was wiped blank and he was bent over his chess board.

"Hello, Penny," he said, absently. "Would you care for a game?"

"No," she said. "No, thanks. I don't play chess. I thought we covered that."

He looked up at her. "Forgive me. I was under the impression that extending an invitation for inclusion was the proper custom, but—"

"No. Yes." The two chairs were pushed so far under his desk that the backs of the seats touched the desk's edge; she yanked one out and collapsed into it. "Sorry. Still not in the mood for chess, though." And anyway, she wouldn't be able to match him, even if the point was to lose all your pieces instead of keep them.

She watched as he exchanged two of the pieces, and then jotted a note on a legal pad. "Are you eager for your date tonight?" he asked.

"...You know about that, huh."

He sighed his _impatient with the universe_ sigh. "I am neither particularly attentive to nor interested in the vagaries of human behavior, but please, Penny, I have an IQ of one hundred eighty-seven. Give me some credit."

"Well, gee," she said. He made another note, edged one of the pieces towards her with a fine-boned finger. "I don't, it isn't—it doesn't mean anything," she tried. His eyebrows arched. "It's only dinner, and it's nice to be around a guy my own age, and anyway, I don't have to answer to _you._"

The top of his pen began to weave in circles. "How old do you think I am?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Thirty? Thirty-five? Why, is it important?"

"I'm twenty-four."

"Holy crap." The world snapped into focus. "Twenty-four? Really?" He nodded. "Holy crap, that' s only—"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

The top of his pen dipped. "Would it have mattered?" The question was distant, answering an expectation but without any emotional investment behind it.

She looked away.

 

 

\- 8 -

Her date with Kurt went great.

Thanks for asking.

 

 

\- 9 -

After mid-terms, she finally had time to wonder.

"So," she said, spread face-down and naked across his desk. He was slumped over her, his breath still coming in great heaves. "What's a genius like you doing in a place like this?"

He stiffened, but her timing caught him off-guard. "It became," he searched for a word, "...imperative for me to work. I cut short my course of study and took the first available job, which was regrettably at an institution more noted for keg parties than cutting-edge research."

"Why?"

Something light kissed the nape of her neck: His lips, or maybe the breeze from the cracked window.

"I had to take care of my sister," he said.

 

 

\- 10 -

They were alone in the room before class started, he early from habit, she for no particular reason.

She told herself that, anyway,_ no particular reason._ It sounded good.

"Penny," he said, and cleared his throat. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"

She gaped.

"Tonight?" he added.

"Yes!" They both jumped, equally startled by the vehemence of her response. "Or—no. Yes, but not tonight, I'm busy, and—will you ask me again?"

"Busy," he said. "With Kurt?"

"Maybe," she said. "You've never asked me out before. You never done anything but—" _fuck me._

His face went flat. _"Dein Herz steht offen, und man kann hinein,"_ he muttered. _"Das hätte dürfen nur mein Eingang sein."_

"...Your heart stands...open?" she said. "And one can—"

"_You_ speak German?"

"You speak German," she returned. "I had two semesters of it. What _was_ that?"

A tint spread across his cheekbones. "Rilke." 

"...Poetry? _You?_"

"Yes, well," he said, and his voice was back to that familiar shrewish tone. "I don't typically indulge in frivolous flights of fancy, but Rilke was a favorite of my—my father."

"I didn't know you knew German," she said. "Or quoted poetry."

This time he was the one to look away. "I imagine," he said, "that there are many things you don't know."

The bell rang.

 

 

\- _Coda_ -

Six years later, they met again at a train station. She wore another man's ring on her fourth finger. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny gives Sheldon everything. He just doesn't want it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go finish the damn thing," I've been telling myself for ages, but no less than five people prodded me for an ending yesterday and, you know, it seemed about time. Soundtrack for this would be the Dresden Dolls; I'd recommend their album titled the same.

_Though free to think and act, we are held together, like the stars in the firmament, with ties inseparable._

— NIKOLA TESLA

 

 

\- 1 -

He asked her again, and she said yes.

"Are you familiar with the movement of all the pieces?" His hands were sure and rhythmic as they set the board; he didn't even spare a glance downward, fingers working independently of his mind. Spare, Penny found, was a good word for him.

"Yeah. My cousin and I used to play when we were kids. I was pretty terrible at it." She shrugged.

"Then you are familiar with the basics of antichess. The objective is to force the other player to 'win,' as defined by traditional chess. Capturing is mandatory, and the king is simply another piece; there is no castling, check, or checkmate."

"Gotcha. Let's get this dog-and-pony show started." She cracked her knuckles and then wiggled her fingers in his direction, but he didn't pick up on the invitation. Even though her hair was wild and a trail of love-bites tattooed her throat. Even though.

"Dog and...?" But then there were his eyes; days like today, the days when he suddenly remembered there was more to his wardrobe than the usual monochromatic rainbow—these days she couldn't resist him, particularly when the cerulean of his shirt made his gaze binding. 

Or blinding. Whatever. No writer she.

"Just something my mother used to say." 

"Quaint. Do you want white?"

"Does it matter?"

The tic in his cheek jumped, and he reversed the board so the black pieces stood with their backs to her. "White goes first," he said.

"Which means you, big surprise," she said. He fixed her with a smoothly innocent expression, so she apologized. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

"I accept your apology," he said, with the hubris of a man who had never apologized for anything, and slid a pawn forward.

The battle raged across the board for five minutes, until he trapped her into taking two pawns, a rook, and his queen in quick succession. Clearly she was lacking in the peculiar blend of genius, ennui, and self-loathing required to triumph at this game. _Clearly_. He backed her into a corner—well, backed himself into a corner—and by the time the board was clear of white, she'd crossed her legs and buttoned her shirt nearly to the collar.

"That was depressing," Penny said.

He began to reset the board.

"I thought you called this something besides 'antichess,'" she said. "When we first met."

His hands stuttered in the air. "Yes."

"Well," she said. "Okay, then."

 

 

\- 2 -

Later that week, she saw his car for the first time. He rode the bus to work most days, as far as she knew, and sometimes she drove him home. Those days they would retreat to his bedroom and screw like clockwork for thirty minutes. When he gave ground to shower, she collected her clothes and left. She preferred his office, or the forbidden luxury of spending the night. Symptom: Too much intimacy, and not enough.

"I didn't know you had a car," she said. Although calling this a _car_ was generous; the body was a nondescript color somewhere gray and beige and looked like it had done duty in a war. _Dented_ didn't do the litter of pockmarks justice.

"I don't care for driving," he muttered, and shoved his key in the door.

"Uh-huh," Penny said. "Looks like driving doesn't care much for you, either."

He shut himself in the bathroom after twenty minutes, that week. She retaliated later by telling him a tedious, drawn-out story about Kurt, trying to crack him with stories about the other men she'd fucked.

They never did make it to that dinner.

 

 

\- 3 -

There were days, though—God, there were days. He pulled her aside after the last class before spring break and presented her with two train tickets.

"Sheldon," she said in bewilderment, then corrected herself with, "Doctor Cooper?"

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?" he asked. The look on his face was so near to _happiness_ that she didn't know how to interpret it.

"Not really," she said, and an hour later found herself standing on the _private car_ he'd booked. The private car he'd booked for _her_.

"Sheldon, what...?" she gasped; it was hard to think when he bent her backward and sucked at her pulse-point, as he was doing now. 

"Research grant, _and_ a hiatus from teaching!" Was he...was he _smiling_?

"Really?" she said, and he nodded, his nose just brushing hers. "Congratulations!" she said. He pulled her upright, already working at the zipper of her pants, but she slid her arms under his suit-jacket and wrapped him in a hug.

He quivered with the effort of holding still, like a high-strung but well-mannered Thoroughbred. For all the dirty, sexual things they'd done together, a simple embrace undid him.

"Hey," she said again, "congratulations." Her hand rubbed in slow circles against the small of his back, doing her best to soothe him.

Slowly, so slowly, one of her arms came up to circle her waist. The other hand—the scarred one, the one he _never_ used to touch her if he could avoid it—that hand threaded between the heavy tangle of her hair and the nape of her neck.

"Thank you," he murmured.

 

 

\- 4 -

She walked in on the scene by accident: Keisha curled, sobbing, in a chair, Amy perched on the arm with a box of tissues in her lap as she stroked Keisha's head.

"What's wrong?" Penny asked, and did her very best not to stare.

"They're putting her on academic probation," Amy said, and Keisha starting sobbing more vehemently. "Oh, _sweetie_," Amy said.

"What? Why?"

_Found out_, Amy mouthed. _About her professor_.

Penny took the blow in her gut, in the soft flesh, no bone laid underneath.

"He's being fired," Amy added.

 

 

\- 5 -

That was the catalyst, of course, but not the truth. The truth was that Penny was unhappy. Of course she was unhappy; after twenty-two years of unhappiness she expected nothing else, didn't even know how to _be_ anything else. The truth was that she hated his rules. _Hated_ them. Don't touch me there, don't wear my shirt, don't you know, don't you realize—

She started to construct arguments. She would say something, and he would say something, and one of them (did it matter which? It did not.) would say, _"You're holding me back_—"

He would insult her: _"You couldn't understand,"_ he would begin, and she would rage, she would yell or cry while he stood calm and passive, letting her anger rush over him in waves—

She would steal the initiative: _"I just can't take this anymore!"_ Take what, he would ask, you've taken nothing, and she wouldn't know how to explain, wouldn't know how to articulate the highs and the blackness his mercurial shifts in mood forced on her—

He made it easier for her, one evening, when she thought to ask him who'd come before. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Of course not," he dismissed, attention clearly and wholly dedicated to his lecture notes. "A simple exchange of money for intercourse served me well enough in the past."

"You—_what_—_whores?_"

He flicked his thumb across a page, brushing away an imaginary fleck of dirt. "I believe the correct term is 'prostitutes,' and yes, the few times my mammalian drives became...distracting, I purchased a professional woman's time."

She choked. "_Why?_"

At that he looked at her, and frowned. "Are you upset? It was an efficient system."

And he would think so, she realized; but after that, she only felt cheap.

 

 

\- 6 -

The realization that she could not and _would_ not end the flawed thing between them caught her off-guard. Rather, he caught her off-guard; for a man completely invested in routine, he surprised her often.

They were tangled together on the floor behind his desk; she'd intended to finish it today, to shake his hand and tell him it was nice knowing him. Maybe kiss him on the cheek, if she felt particularly firm. But then he'd laced their fingers together and _oh_, she thought, _one more can't hurt_—

She liked the office fucks, because he held her and let the after glow. His arm pillowed her head, and with one finger he traced abstract patterns on her stomach. Abstract to her, at least; they probably meant something different to him.

He cleared his throat. "I spoke with your advisor yesterday."

"Mm," she purred.

"You still have a number of electives to fill before you complete your degree."

"Mmhm." 

"The president of the College of Fine Arts has agreed to admit you. You'll have to stay another semester, of course, but they're making a special provision. You should be able to graduate with a double major in business and theater."

"Great," she said, and then, "Wait."

He huffed. "I did go out of my way, you know—"

"Wait." She rolled over and propped herself up with both elbows. "Are you saying that—"

"They've awarded you a small scholarship, to help offset the additional cost. The president was wary at first—I can't imagine why, I told him you were talented—but once he saw your recordings from high school, he changed his mind."

"You tracked down my—"

His face contorted. "Was I incorrect in thinking you would be pleased?"

"_Pleased_? Sheldon, I'm beyond—I'm _ecstatic_!" She threw back her head and laughed, her hair sliding over her shoulders and across his face.

"Oh. Good," he started to say, but she swallowed his words with her lips.

Which was why it came as such a shock to her when he ended things himself.

 

 

\- 7 -

"I hadn't realized you were so invested in our—in our tryst," he said, after he made his proclamation.

"But. Why?" she asked. Her voice came out soft, hurt; she hated that, hated that he made her into that. She refused to play the timid, willing woman.

He turned away from her, back to the blackboard—could he have picked a better place to do this than a fucking _classroom_, the jackass—

Anger was better. Anger could be a balm.

"This," he said. "Our association," he tried again, "has developed beyond—"

"You _bastard_," she growled. Her nails bit into her palms, leaving little half-crescent marks in white. Good. Let her scar.

"I've taking advantage of the situation. Of you," he said. 

"Damn straight, and I thought you were _enjoying_ it," she shot back.

He didn't deign to respond directly. "You upset my routine."

"You upset mine!" 

His shoulders were taut, his hands steady as he picked up a piece of chalk and began to write on the board. Seeing that certainty shook her.

"You know what?" Here was the thing to do. "You know what? This isn't worth it."

"Oh?"

"No," she said, and let go. "No. I'm leaving now."

"Your grade will be posted by the end of the week." 

"Great. Thanks," she told his back, and took three steps to the door. She wasn't sure what impulse led her to pause and say, "We do this to ourselves."

He didn't answer, so she left him there with his equations. She doubted he'd have a nice life, and she wasn't deceitful enough to wish him one.

 

 

\- 8 -

In her bones she missed him, in the hollowed out core of her self, but the rest of her body felt empty. She didn't think about him often.

 

 

\- 9 -

The money came to her attention some time later. There was enough in her account to pay off all her student loans and then some; she didn't care to wonder how he'd gotten her checking number.

She left the sum there, untouched, for twenty-five years, until her son's eighteenth birthday.

 

 

\- 10 -

If she had turned back that day, she would've seen that the value he put up for Planck's constant was incorrect. He could not remember a time before he knew the value for _h_ in three different units; the error was fundamental and beneath him. She did not turn back, however, and so did not see him err. She didn't see him retreat to his office later, either. She wasn't there as he turned his sister's picture upright for the first time in years, and she didn't sit across from him as he set the chess board.

Despite her absence, he gave her white to play, as he should have from the beginning.

 

 

\- _Coda_ -

Six years later, they met again at a train station. She wore another man's ring on her fourth finger.

He kissed her anyway.


End file.
